The drive back to London was relatively uneventful. DaveG did what little navigation was necessary to get us withing shouting distance of London and Lori slept in the back.

Jackie rode with Dave and Margie as the three of them still had some shopping they wanted to get out of their system. Me, I was shopped out.

London had initiated a Congestion Charge the day before (17th), designed to reduce auto commutes into central London. Using the pre-existing “speeding cameras”, a 5-pound charge is assessed against any auto entering the Zone from somewhere else (apparently, if you start and finish your drive in the Zone, you’re fine?). Our destination was a minor side street only a few blocks short of the start of the Zone, so it was important we note make any errors along the way in, or we’d blunder into the Zone.

You see where this is going? You’re talking about a team that accidentally drove to Bristol, England while trying to get to Cardiff, Wales — of course we blundered into the Zone — it’s really only a wonder we didn’t do it twice.

Eventually, we made it back to the right turn off the M4 (in our defense, it’s hellishly tricky), managed to not be killed while circling Sloane Square (a section of “road” obviously designed for horse carts and quaint local markets and just as obviously not designed for the automotive cross traffic that uses it now), filled up the car’s 13 gallon tank for the bargain basement price of $65 US and pulled up at the B&B.

When we commented on the outrageous price of gas in England (comprised mostly of tax), our attention was directed to the U.S., where our national deficit is all the justification Great Britain really needs — they haven’t got one. It’s a fair argument.

Once we’d unloaded our bags into the bedroom nearest the ground floor (bags we’d cunningly packed so as to avoid using all but one per couple that night) I took the car back to the rental agency about 10 blocks away.

I drove it alone.

Riiiight.

So, 45 minutes later, I left the rental agency even more convinced of how brilliant the London Underground is. Quick stop to drop off the rental cell phone and I got back to the B&B just after Jackie and the Consortium arrived. The three of them had hit on the Brilliant Idea of walking down to the Tate Britain, which was (a) much more to our taste than the Modern (b) open til 6pm (c) free.

Perfect.

It was a fine walk down to the Tate along many of the same streets I’d driven along while returning the car. This time, however, I noticed a number of interesting churches and museums along the way which I’d been far too occupied to see previously. I maintain that London is a town made for walking.

We wandered the Tate smiling, enjoying our last afternoon and writing down names and titles to look for prints of when we got back home — the list is long and distinguished. The only section we skipped was the small modern art area.

I did step in there for a second to untwist the waistband of my boxers that had gotten all turned about — as I explained to my wife, I didn’t want to adjust my underwear in front of the Real art. :)

We got back to the B&B around 6p and settled on ending our last night the way we did our first — dinner at the (smoke-free) Duke of York, right alongside Victoria Palace, across from Vic Station. Dinner was good and afterwards we split up to head back to the B&B and/or check email.

Our last night’s sleep was, unfortunately, just as comfortable as all our night’s had been in London.

The Palm, revisited:
In retrospect, the major impact frying the Palm had on my part of the trip was this journal, which I forced myself to get caught up on, since my last Europe trip-journal was so badly ignored by yours truly. I’d planned to type everything into the Palm, but surprised myself and others with my ability to fill page after page with handwritten notes without rendering my hand completely useless. It finally started to wear out my stamina on the 19th (and with it my fine pen’s ink supply), but I’m proud I was able to fill the eighty-page notepad almost to brimming. It is one of my favorite souvenirs from the trip — the one most unlooked-for.